Vice Enforcer

by S. A. Stovall

  “Wow.”

  I turn to Miles. He’s staring at a wall covered in pictures and printouts. I return to my work. “What is it?”

  “This guy is obsessed with Noimore. And kidnappings.”

  I lift an eyebrow but keep my eyes on the task at hand. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I mean he has a lot of information and statistics on kidnap victims out of Noimore. As in, it’s bordering on the obsessive. I’d go so far as to say it’s unhealthy.”

  “He gets paid to investigate stuff like that. Why are you surprised?”

  Miles doesn’t answer. I glance back at him and see his attention is drawn to one article in particular. I let him read, unconcerned about Shelby’s past cases. Fortunately for me, I find a key ring in the bottom drawer of his desk. I return to the filing cabinet and unlock it.

  The jam-packed cluster of paperwork surprises me. It’s difficult to open the drawer all the way, as the papers get caught on the sides and the bottom of the drawer above. I pull out the most recent file—the one closest to the handle—and open it up.

  Like Shelby said, he has a list of locations. Six, to be specific, but I catch my breath when I look over the addresses.

  Noimore. All but one of them.

  I exhale and half crumple the paper in frustration. I never wanted to go back there. Ever. Maybe it once held fond memories for me, but after leaving the Vice family mob, I’ve had a different feeling about the place. It’s a nightmare. A terrible reminder of my time with Jeremy and how I almost lost everything I give a shit about.

  And what if my old acquaintances see me? Right now they think I’m dead. But if they knew… if they found me… what would they do? Jeremy Vice once risked everything to keep me at his side—his Vice Hound—but there are people out there who would pay to kill me all over again. If I go to Noimore, I risk dragging that all back to my new life here in Joliet.

  Miles places a hand on my shoulder, and I jump up, my heart pounding. I reach for a gun I didn’t bring, and it takes me a moment to take in even breaths. I think Jeremy left more than a tattoo on my arm—it’s hard to focus sometimes when I think of life under him.

  “Pierce?” Miles asks, looking me over. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Nothing I can change,” I snap. Better to just bury these thoughts and put them to rest.

  “He wants you to go to Noimore,” Miles says, his face emotionless. “Doesn’t he?”

  I hand over the list of locations. Miles gives it a quick glance and hands it back, his hard eyes set in understanding.

  While he mulls over the situation, I pull out an armful of files from the bottom cabinet drawer and then shut it. I should probably read up on all of Shelby’s investigations into this matter. Maybe I can find out how he got all this information in the first place.

  “One of these locations is here in Joliet,” Miles says.

  “It’s the North Union Rail Yard. They won’t be returning there. Ever.”

  “You know you don’t have to do this, right? You can go work for a different PI and earn your experience the hard way.”

  “Is that what you think I should do?”

  Miles looks at me in confusion. I narrow my eyes.

  “Isn’t that what you want?” I ask, holding back my sardonic tone. “You want me to ask you what you think?”

  “Y-yeah,” he mutters. He rubs the back of his neck. After a long moment, his eyes locked on the floor, he replies, “We should at least try. We can turn back if it gets too dangerous. Unless you don’t think you can handle it.”

  I know he doesn’t mean it like a challenge, but I can’t help getting defiantly angry.

  “We should get familiar with these places,” I say. “We’ll go there now, in the day, when we’re less likely to have problems, and then I’ll decide.”

  “So long as we can get back before 5:00 p.m. That’s when Jayden and Lacy need to be picked up from school.”

  Tsk. I forgot it was Monday. And how did I get the restrictions of a soccer mom’s schedule?

  “Fine. Let’s go.”

  I exit the office and stop when I see someone waiting outside the glass front door. It’s some asshole in a suit—an attorney, no doubt—and the man’s frown deepens the moment he sees me.

  “Let me in,” the attorney demands, his voice half-muffled by the door.

  Miles looks to me and I nod. He goes to open the door, and the attorney flounces in with flared nostrils.

  “Where is Shelby?” he asks, glancing around. “I need that witness statement.”

  The prissy whine of his voice irritates me. “Which case?” I ask.

  “The People vs. McMillian. Are you a PI at this firm? Do you know where my last witness statement is? I need it before Wednesday!”

  The case name rings a bell, and I remember Shelby was going to get to it the morning after the rail yard incident. He must have forgotten.

  “I’ll handle it,” I say. “Which witness do you need?”

  He half stomps his foot and huffs. The man has a suit and posture that says Yeah, you can kick my ass, but my father will sue. I don’t think he’s told no often enough. And judging by his flashy cuff links, his pompous attitude works for him.

  The attorney opens his briefcase and hands over a sheet of paper. I look at the address and read it three times before I believe what I’m seeing. It’s our neighbor. The grouchy woman who pestered me about my garden.

  I look at the charges in the case. Voluntary manslaughter. Interesting.

  “I’ll take care of this before Wednesday.”

  “You better,” the attorney snaps.

  “Now get out. I’m closing up shop.”

  I KEEP my jacket close and the collar propped up. I recognize the sights like I recognize my reflection in the mirror. Everything about Noimore is second nature to me. I almost want to tell Miles where to turn and what to avoid, but I keep quiet. Instead I check that my shoulder holster and firearm are secure. You can never be too safe.

  Lake Michigan glistens in the distance, far beyond the multistory buildings, slums, and suburbs of Noimore. During the day, there’s a bustle of workers and businessmen going about their business. But after dusk—when it gets dark—the place shows its true colors. The law-abiding denizens keep to themselves.

  I spot a ramshackle hotel and tap Miles on the leg. His thigh is practically solid muscle—a thought I know I shouldn’t have in the middle of a time-sensitive matter, but last night got me excited and I’ve yet to do anything about it. Miles doesn’t seem to notice my hesitation. He turns to me, keeping one eye on the road.

  “What is it?”

  “Stop there. On the side of the road.”

  “In front of the hotel?”

  “Yeah.”

  Trash fills the gutters, and the tires of our vehicle squish through it as Miles pulls up to the curb. Even with the light of a full afternoon, I swear the sordid atmosphere mutes all color until everything is either drab brown or dull gray. I avoid stepping on anything brown as I get out of the car.

  “Do you have a pair of sunglasses?” I ask.

  Miles nods. He pulls a pair out of the pocket of his cargo pants and tosses them over. They scream police. Do the police buy a special brand? I don’t know, but it looks like something a cop would wear. Too sleek and too tinted. Not what I want to sport in this neighborhood. I tuck them into my jacket and lean against the car. Miles stands by my side, confused but patient.

  A girl exits out the front door of the hotel, in heels so thin and tall you’d think she stood on toothbrushes. She struts with a hip sway all the way up to our car, her improbable footwear not a hindrance but an ally in exaggerated movement.

  “Are you two looking for some afternoon delight?” she asks, a sweetness to her tone unbefitting her profession.

  “Hello, ma’am,” Miles says, no doubt feeling the need to be polite. The girl cocks an eyebrow and giggles.r />
  “Normally there are girls outside,” I drawl, glancing around and finding the sidewalk suspiciously empty. Even the dark alleys and shady bus stops are free of homeless.

  She straightens her little crop top. “Business has changed. Do you want somethin’ or not?”

  “It’s my buddy’s birthday soon. He’s been complaining about needing new experiences.”

  “Oh?” She gives Miles the once-over, his honeyed skin a slight shade of red, and then she smiles. “Well, we need to go inside to discuss specifics.”

  Inside? That’s never how it was before. But I nod regardless.

  We walk inside, and the pieces of this mystery start coming together. The lobby has a nightclub’s worth of activity, including a small bar and a cigarette stand. Ladies hang around in groups, watching the street through the smudged windows, while a handful of enforcers keep an eye on their girls.

  But why inside? Only people who knew this place was a hot spot would stop for a frolic between the sheets—it drastically cuts down on business. Half the game is playing someone desperate or drunk, which would be impossible standing around inside and not on the streets in front of bars.

  Our girl waves to one of the enforcers and heads up the stairs to the second story. Miles glues himself to my side.

  “What’re we doing?” he asks under his breath, panic in his voice.

  “They aren’t going to mess with us. Calm your tits.”

  “I don’t want to be with, er—well, anyone but you. That’s not what I meant by new experiences.” When I don’t respond, he grabs me by the arm. “And I’m in a police academy now. You know what’ll get me kicked out and prevent you from getting a PI license? Solicitation charges.”

  “Relax,” I snap. “It isn’t solicitation until we agree to exchange money for sex. We’re not guilty of anything. Yet.”

  “Still,” Miles drawls, “this looks bad. We can’t keep using your old tactics for information gathering.”

  “Follow my lead.”

  The woman stops and leans against the door, a smile across her thin face. “I don’t do group things.”

  “I’m just here to watch,” I say.

  Miles purses his lips and flushes harder. It amuses me, in a curious way, that after all we’ve been through, he could retain some semblance of innocence.

  The girl must find it amusing as well. She giggles, opens the door, and walks into a room that was decorated during the ’70s. Green shag carpeting and faux wood paneling walls. The place will only be complete with a lava lamp. The queen-size bed, to my surprise, is made and neat. Classier than most whorehouses, I suppose.

  “So,” the girl begins, “if you’re going to watch, I’m gonna charge extra.”

  I shut the door and lock it. “How much for a conversation?”

  “Conversation? Whaddya mean?”

  She sits on the edge of the bed and crosses her long legs. Miles stands in the shadow of the far corner, his arms folded tight against his chest. He doesn’t look comfortable, that’s for sure, and I walk over to the woman to handle the situation.

  “I mean, I want to know what’s going on here in Noimore. I’m sure a smart girl like you sees and hears a few interesting things.”

  The woman snorts. “Oh.” She licks her lips as she mulls over my comment. “A hundred for a conversation.”

  “Fine.” I pull the money from my wallet and toss it onto her lap. She collects it up and stuffs it into some hideaway shoe pocket.

  “’Kay. What’s up?”

  “What do you know about the recent kidnappings?”

  Her stiff posture and frown tell me she knows something—and that she’s not in the mood to share. I pay attention as she scoots back on the bed and gets comfortable among the pillows.

  “I don’t know anything about kidnappings,” she says, a forced disinterest in her voice.

  “Bullshit.”

  “I don’t.”

  “And I don’t believe you. What’s the point of paying you if you’re not gonna talk?”

  “I can’t tell ya what I don’t know.”

  “What’s your name?” Miles interjects.

  The woman hugs a pillow. “Kimmy. But what’s that got to do with kidnappings?” She glares. “You better not be thinkin’ of tryin’ anything. Johnny and Luca will kick your guys’ asses.”

  “Is that why you’re inside?” I demand. “So that Johnny and Luca can stop thugs from pickin’ up girls and never returning?”

  Kimmy continues her glower. “What does it matter to you guys?”

  “Listen, Kimmy….” Miles steps out of the corner and loosens his grip on his arms. He walks over to the bed and takes a seat on the side. “We’re looking for the people who have gone missing. If you have any information, any at all, that would really help us out.”

  She regards him with a frown, but her brow furrows as she fidgets with her pillow. “You’re looking for them?”

  “Has anyone you know gone missing? A friend, maybe? Could you tell us what anyone was doing before they went missing?”

  The mention of “a friend” gets Kimmy quiet. I glance over at Miles, and he gives me a knowing look, like he’s got this situation handled and I can sit it out. I bite my tongue. Maybe his brand of charisma will get more info than my streetwise.

  “No,” Kimmy answers. “No one has gone missing.”

  Goddammit.

  Maybe I should have tried to find someone I know. Then again, the moment anyone knows I’m back in town will be the moment I have to leave the state. Which means I’m stuck trying to convince random people to give me information—and what am I going to give them in exchange? Trust doesn’t come easy when you live life next to gangbangers and thugs.

  “What about the Vice family?” Miles asks, shifting gears completely. “Do you know anything about them?”

  I hold my breath.

  “I only know Jeremy,” Kimmy says, tilting her head from side to side. “Him and his guys run the docks.”

  “When did he get out of jail?”

  “Six months back, I think. He wasn’t off the streets long.”

  “Are his guys running around town or causing trouble? Maybe you’ve seen them ask you, uh, fine young ladies to go with them places.”

  Kimmy laughs. She falls across the other pillow. “Us fine young ladies don’t interest Jeremy. And he really doesn’t leave the docks. He’s, like, into shipping and trucks now. The Vice family doesn’t even peddle guns anymore. Just boats and stuff.”

  Boats?

  Miles and I exchange confused glances.

  Since when did the Vice family do stuff with shipping? Then again, Jeremy never knew how to run an operation properly. Maybe he’s making another fucking mistake.

  Still—we probably could have figured that out on our own—this girl’s information hasn’t been worth the time or money. “Let’s go,” I say to Miles. “We have places to check out.”

  Kimmy snaps her fingers as Miles stands. We both turn to her, confused.

  “I want three hundred more,” she says. “For your privacy.”

  “What?” I snap.

  “Unless you want me talkin’ to all my girlfriends—and my clients—about how some Asian and a guy with a weird eye came asking questions about the Vice family.”

  Tsk. Clever bitch. She doesn’t even know how hard she has me over a barrel. I really don’t want that story getting out and around town. But I can’t let her know that.

  “I’ll give you fifty,” I say.

  Miles whips his attention to me, like I shouldn’t be blasé about the threat, but what else am I going to do? It’s not like I could handle this situation as a thug. I’m a law-abiding citizen now.

  “A hundred,” she demands. “And you go out the back door. And pay for a movie.”

  Heh. She doesn’t want to go back downstairs and needs some entertainment. I roll my eyes and open my wallet. “Fine,” I state. “A hundred and twenty for your silence.”

  I go to toss the
money when a crash echoes from the wall. I glance over and hear it again, and this time it shakes the wall-mounted TV. Then I hear a half scream and snap of noise—it tells me there’s a tussle in the room next door.

  “What’s going on?” Miles asks in a hushed tone. He turns to me. “You don’t think someone is being taken from this hotel, do you?”

  Another slam against the wall confirms that it’s not two people fucking on a bed. But lowlife kidnappers wouldn’t be in the heart of a whorehouse trying to abduct women, would they? No. That’s preposterous. They’d get caught in a heartbeat.

  I turn my attention to Kimmy and see her staring at the shaking wall, her eyes wide. She obviously didn’t expect whatever is happening.

  Another slam, followed by a yell.

  Miles pulls his gun, and I do the same. There’s a chance some thug got greedy—maybe he thinks he can get away with it—I don’t know, but now’s as good a time as any to find out.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “ARE YOU two cops?” Kimmy asks the moment we have our Colt .45 handguns up and ready. “Y-you have to tell me if you’re cops!”

  I ignore her inane demands and exit the room. Miles and I take positions on either side of the neighboring door. He nods to me, and I nod back. Before either of us goes kicking anything in, I reach for the handle and find it unlocked. I guess the element of surprise is on our side.

  After I open the door, we rush inside. The room is near identical to the last, just flipped around, and we barge into the bedroom with our guns up.

  A man with a trucker’s physique—large gut, thick arms, thicker beard—stands over a guy with the exact opposite appearance, to the point he hits androgynous. But his bruises and bloody face are what I notice next.

  “What the fuck?” the larger guy asks. He’s topless, but he wears a natural shirt of hair like he’s part grizzly.